


for you i could be warmer

by elisu



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Artist AU, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Lee Taeyong-centric, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Pining, doyoung plays the cello, inspired by van gogh, it's about the yearning, non-conventional proposals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26885503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elisu/pseuds/elisu
Summary: He turns his gaze towards the heavens. Tells Taeyong he’ll pick out every single star from the sky, if he only asks him to. Taeyong takes another sip from his glass and says he’d rather not— how would he be able to paint them?Doyoung says he knows he would be able to find a way.
Relationships: Kim Dongyoung | Doyoung/Lee Taeyong
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36
Collections: nct title fest 2020





	for you i could be warmer

**Author's Note:**

> format inspired by 4rl + words in bold are van gogh quotes (not mine!)

**_‘I often think that the night is more alive and more richly coloured than the day.’_ **

Doyoung plays for Taeyong one last time, in the field. He brings his cello and bow and a little wooden stool out into the long, tangled tendrils of moonlight and performs a concerto under the stars. 

Taeyong sits on a battered piece of throwaway wood, on the floor next to him — and he watches as the bow dances in long, elegant strokes on and off the thick grey strings. Doyoung’s got one hand almost tenderly grasping the wooden bow and the other at eye-level, supporting the neck of the instrument and deftly fingering the notes on its bridge. His knees are set firmly, feet on the ground, holding the cello in place like the sturdy legs of an easel. And what a sight it is. 

His eyes fall shut as he plays, brow furrowed in white-hot concentration and head swaying gently in time with the sweet, slow melody. A cool gust of night air washes through the field like a wave on a silent beach, chilly fingers creating ripples in the otherwise-golden wheat. Doyoung trills his fingers on the highest string and then pauses immediately after, in a rest, and Taeyong feels chills creep their way down his spine. He could paint this feeling, if only he knew how to. 

At this moment in time Taeyong does not—  _ can _ not bear to have anything else on his mind. Just a moment ago he was a jar full of repressed worries and silent tension, an incessant dread pounding down on his head like a bad storm and a lid of a poker face screwed tightly on top.  _ This will be fine _ , Doyoung and his common sense tell him. Right now it is. Right now Taeyong can see every satin strand on Doyoung’s midnight head. He can watch the smile on his lips, the love in his fingertips. He can drink in all these sights slowly like a cheaply bartered-for bottle of red grape wine.

Because Doyoung is here, now, and not in far-flung ballrooms and concert halls and places bigger and better than this small town. Because Taeyong is here, now, in his company. 

Tomorrow he will not be, but tonight  _ this _ will have to be all that matters. 

It will have to be. 

He must have drifted off into one of his dazes again, far-off enough to not realise that Doyoung’s been staring right back at him, dare he says just as intensely for who knows how long. And he’s finished playing, too. 

A feeling of pride settles in him, almost shamelessly so, as he wonders whether Doyoung will look all of his future audiences so deeply in the eye with  _ that _ look that has made itself at home between the two of them so many times before.  _ I don’t think so _ , he thinks cockily to himself, before the usual part of his brain smacks him on the head from the inside again.  _ What makes you so sure? _

“Paris doesn’t have this,” Doyoung murmurs, his voice spilling colours of moonlight and smooth oils. 

“It has a whole lot, they say,” Taeyong laughs, in reply. It’s not a particularly cheerful laugh; the bitterness in his mouth seems to have helped with that, and Doyoung must have tasted it too, because he lets out a long, shaky sigh, and rebuts,

“But it doesn’t have you.” 

And this is how their last night ends. With an affirmation that leaves a little more validation in Taeyong than necessary, but brushes a layer of bitter complacency on top of the gaping void. Later, Doyoung will have loosened his bow, packed his cello into its case and all the apology he can muster up into a light kiss on Taeyong’s temple, and Taeyong will have left a whisper of “good luck,” in his ear, before trudging back up the hill to his own one-room cottage a little out of the way from the rest of the town.

Paris doesn’t have Taeyong, but tomorrow, Taeyong won’t have Doyoung. 

  
  
  
  


**_‘The beginning is perhaps more difficult than anything else, but keep heart, it will turn out all right.’_ **

  
  
  


Taeyong’s inability to think about what’s relatively further in front of him lands him a number of inconveniences, one being the canvas that’s currently being left to dry  _ on top _ of the black metal stove. Yesterday putting it there seemed like a good idea- the direct sunlight happening to fall in that particular spot when it was necessary, but now it’s a pain in the behind, considering he can do nothing to relocate it until the paint dries. And his bread. Taeyong feels a lurch in his chest thinking about the beautiful baguette he had bought from the market yesterday. He will just have to eat it cold. 

Another inconvenience is the bullet-shaped hole that sits snugly in the corner of his window pane. In a fit of particularly intense sadness, Taeyong took out the pistol that god knows  _ why _ he even had in the first place and shot a hole into it, much to the dismay of the poor village goat who was grazing outside. That day he had lamb to eat, today he has cold bread and colder feet thanks to the biting wind slipping through the lack of glass and his impulsiveness. 

It’s a bother, but he’ll be alright. 

This morning is awfully quiet, now that Doyoung has gone. Usually around this time of day the faint sound of cello practising makes its way out of town and up the fields into his window, and it gives Taeyong something to concentrate on when he wakes up. He curses at himself for letting his brain fall into such a routine, then grumpily mauls off a chunk of the baguette with his teeth and chews silently while sitting on the dusty kitchen floor.  _ At least this bread is good _ , Taeyong thinks,  _ even if I did buy it yesterday and it has gone a bit hard _ . He watches the shadows play tag on the floorboards in front of him as sparrows flutter from branch to branch outside his window, uncharacteristically cheerful for such a gloomy day. The sun is shining a little too bright for his liking and Taeyong could sing along to the chirping noises they make outside, but it’s just not the same. 

Instead, he decides to paint something. 

  
  
  


“Are you here to buy oils, sir?” Taeyong hears a childish voice pitch from behind him. He turns around to see Haechan, the florist’s son, dressed in his usual outfit of brown overalls and a linen paperboy cap. In his hands is a bunch of fresh sunflowers and on his freckled brown face is a curious expression. 

“I am, Haechan,” he replies. “I’ve run out of yellows.” 

“Would you like a sunflower then? They are yellow.”

Taeyong chuckles. “They are, too. How much for one of them?” 

“Oh,” Haechan smiles. “You can have one for free.”

“Really?” Taeyong asks, eyes wide as Haechan hands him the flower. “Are you sure?”

“Of course!” Haechan says, already skipping down the cobblestone alleyway and away from him. “Have a nice day, sir!”

He stands there for a while afterwards, a little dumbfounded by the boy’s act of kindness. The sunflower in his hand beams up at him, big brown face and golden mane asking him why he’s so gloomy today of all days. Taeyong’s immediate response would be to snap back something along the lines of, “Well, why did Doyoung have to leave today of all days?” but he narrows his eyes playfully at the flower’s big head and sighs in joking defeat. _You’re right,_ he admits to the petals. _It is a beautiful day._

  
  
  


When he gets back home, he paints his blue walls, yellow furniture and brown floor. He paints the framed art next to his bed, and the way the morning sunlight filters in through the green-paned window. He paints the cloth hanging next to his chair and the sunflower on the floor next to his aisle, and after an afternoon of painting and a cup of black coffee, he finds that the canvas on the stove has dried completely. 

He toasts the rest of the baguette for dinner, and eats it with extra butter just because he can. And he thinks maybe everything really will be okay after all. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**_‘What am I in the eyes of most people — a nonentity, an eccentric, or an unpleasant person — somebody who has no position in society and will never have; in short, the lowest of the low. All right, then — even if that were absolutely true, then I should one day like to show by my work what such an eccentric, such a nobody, has in his heart. That is my ambition, based less on resentment than on love in spite of everything, based more on a feeling of serenity than on passion. Though I am often in the depths of misery, there is still calmness, pure harmony and music inside me. I see paintings or drawings in the poorest cottages, in the dirtiest corners. And my mind is driven towards these things with an irresistible momentum.’_ **

  
  
  


It’s a little less than a week later that the sunflower begins to die. Taeyong fills the milk jug with a fresh change of water regardless, and the quickly-drying stalk drinks it up thirstily. By the time the next Monday does come, the jug is empty and the yellow petals have browned and wrinkled up like anchovies in a glass jar. He leaves them be, lets the saccharine aroma fill the room, although he’ll admit he doesn’t fancy it very much. Flowers, as beautiful as they do smell, connotate the rich people in town that turn up their noses and choose to be less than kind to Taeyong. 

It’s a pity, Taeyong thinks, that humans have the cruel ability to ruin something so pure for him. 

  
  
  
  


He wears his  _ other _ coat on his trip to town that morning, after a half-hearted cup of coffee that naggingly convinces him to get out of the house. The better part of autumn has swept him by, and now the season’s biting chill has begun to make its annual visit to town. Taeyong eyes at the (admittedly not very valuable) cluster of coins in his hand and decides that maybe instead of a large baguette he’ll get a small one today, and some apples from the fruit stall. 

Autumn is in full bloom all around him— the reds, browns, and all shades of gold coming together to form a picturesque November scenery. Crimson trees line the cobblestone paths, and vines the colour of flames twist and turn and drape themselves across the tops of buildings like leafy curtains of fire. 

It’s a scene that’s too good  _ not _ to draw. 

And so he does. He crouches down by one of the benches by the path, takes his journal out from his inner coat pocket and sets it on the stone beam like canvas on an easel. Then he gets out his charcoal and he sketches. 

There’s a certain way that morning sun makes a cold morning look. There’s logistics behind it, as Doyoung has probably tried to explain to him at one point, but Taeyong likes to think that it’s a bit more magical than anything. White-gold stardust (the sun is a star, this much Taeyong knows), and the way heaven spills out onto the earth, gracing every leaf, every stone with its light. Everything is beautiful through the eyes of an artist. 

Everything is good. 

  
  
  


Taeyong isn’t stupid. He's not oblivious to the prolonged stares his charcoal-stained fingertips bring him when he’s paying for the apples at the marketplace. When he extends an arm to place the coins in the merchant’s hand, and she thanks him courteously but wipes her hands almost immediately. Maybe in a well-ordered universe this would be because of the charcoal. Just because of the charcoal. Just hygiene. This isn’t one, though, and Taeyong knows better. He knows the rest of the townsfolk liken him to some kind of disease, and that he’s looked down upon. He can’t blame them. He, too, would be afraid if his parents quickened their pace around the artist in town and shielded his eyes from the alleged madman. The one that’s less-than respectable. 

It doesn’t make him feel very good, though, and as he’s making his way out of town again through clumps of people going about their morning he gets more looks than he usually would. (In his house, where he lives alone). He begins to wonder if maybe he shouldn’t have bought the apples after all. 

  
  


The cobblestone streets are an inviting shade of warm this morning. Taeyong casts his mind away from the less pleasant ideas he can sense looming ahead, and finds himself a secluded alley where he can eat one of the apples he’s bought. Placing the paper bag on the curb next to where he settles down, he takes out an apple from inside and rubs it with the lining of his coat. He doesn’t eat it straight away. Makes a point to admire the lines and dots that illustrate its skin, because an apple is never just an apple. And this apple isn’t just red. It’s gold and brown and green and purple, and it looks like a painting Taeyong plans to create later today. What a relief Taeyong has eyes, and what a relief Taeyong has art. 

A pumpkin-coloured calico cat pops its head out from around the corner, catching his eye, and Taeyong’s face lights up at the sight of it. “Why, hello there!” He greets, brightly. “How are you doing this fine day? Up to important business, I suppose?”

“Of course you are. You must have very important matters to attend to- oh,” The cat leaps down and makes its way over to him, much to his delight. Paws padding softly on warm cobblestones. Doyoung would have loved this. 

Then it hits him. The thought of  _ him _ . And how it aches, too. Taeyong is suddenly reminded of the gaping emptiness that resides in him. He’s painfully aware of it now and he hates it. 

The cat comes closer and twists its little yellow body around Taeyong’s legs as if it’s comforting him.  _ It’s okay _ , the brush of soft fur on his ankles seems to say.  _ You will be okay _ . 

He continues chatting to the cat, savouring the all quiet comfort this moment has to offer. Slow like oils, all his troubles seem to melt away at the hands— _ paws _ of this little animal. A friend. 

"Hey!" An unkind voice shouts, and Taeyong looks up from where he's sitting. Upon hearing the harsh noise, the cat quickly runs away. Taeyong is less lucky. 

"Talking to animals, are you?" The voice comes from a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a stern brow. He's come around the corner, too, and Taeyong assumes that his house is somewhere there as well. "Like me to feed you too? Like the animal you are?" The man piffs a hard loaf of bread at him, and it hits him square on the jaw. Taeyong manages to grab at it before it hits the ground, and it falls neatly into his lap. "Freak," the man says again. "That'll teach you," and before he knows it, Taeyong feels something drip down his neck. It's bitter and red, but smells nothing like blood. 

The man turns around the corner again, and Taeyong is left wondering what just happened (and what to make of it). He's left with grape wine dripping down one side of his face, and a loaf of (albeit stale) bread that's been…  _ given _ to him by a stranger free of cost. 

He blinks. 

Then he takes out his sketchbook _. 'My Beloved Doyoung,"  _ he scrawls onto a new page. _ You'll never believe what just happened.' _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**_‘For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.’_ **

  
  
  


He has someone to meet today. An art dealer who goes by the name of Taeil Moon. Taeyong had nearly forgotten about the arrangement, but Doyoung had sent a letter, the week prior, reminding him to go to the vineyard cafe on Thursday morning in the Good suit. (He hadn’t let him forget, as it seems). 

It’s just as well. Doyoung had insisted that making connections and selling things was the key to living a long, healthy life, (although Taeyong thinks that what he’d described is the key to a long, healthy death). Or a career, though these are synonymous depending on how you want to look at it. Doyoung’s letters come just as frequently as he’d promised, which is a silent relief on Taeyong’s part. Not that he’d ever lose faith in him, no, but just that it’s nice to feel cared for. Doyoung’s letters speak of velvet curtains and sweeping performance halls. Glitterings bounds of a long, healthy career.  _ “Money makes the world go ‘round, unfortunately,” _ Doyoung had said, and to a certain extent, Taeyong agrees. 

  
  


Which brings him here— a small outdoor table at a restaurant that’s uncomfortably expensive. A view that overlooks the entire vineyard and an art dealer sitting across from him. 

Taeil is friendly; something that Taeyong feels thoroughly relieved by once the two of them are some several minutes deep into the conversation. Oh— and he’s offered to pay for food. That, too. Before the food arrives he barely recognises any of the names of dishes that Taeil orders. After it’s served, Taeyong can’t say he does, either. There’s meat, yes. And wine on the side. The liquid in the bowl is most probably soup. He takes a spoon and tastes a mouthful of it. Yes. Soup. 

“So,” Taeil begins, clasping together both his hands. “What have you brought to show me?”

The question meets Taeyong mid-chew, and he swallows and puts a bread roll back down on his plate before reaching into his case to pull out two paintings. One is of the town square in winter, painted with cold-coloured oils. Street lights the colour of swiss cheese set the scenery aglow and swim through the overall gloominess of the painting in soft, luminous ripples. Taeyong thinks Taeil likes it. 

(He doesn’t). “That’s okay,” Taeil says, taking a sip of red wine from the glass. “Show me the other one?”

This one Taeyong himself doesn’t fancy a great deal. It’s a painting of... nothing much, really. A study of a gate, some grass, and a house behind that. He painted it at a class many months ago, and it doesn’t look like it’s his work at all. 

And just as Taeyong fears, Taeil loves it. He puts his glass down and reaches out to feel the canvas himself and gives Taeyong a proud smile, nodding. “It’s great, sir. I’ll buy this one.”

  
  
  


The rest of their meeting is less than worth noting, with a simple transaction of more money than Taeyong has maybe ever seen at one time in his life, and a simpler shake of hands. “Pleasure doing business with you,” Taeil says, though Taeyong feels otherwise. “I would highly consider you paint more in this style, Mr. Kim. You have great talent and I am sure people would love it.” 

_ God _ . At least this man has paid him. 

  
  
  


It’s after they nod each other goodbye and go their separate ways that Taeyong realises his left hand is one case lighter. Turning back in the direction of the restaurant, he quickens his pace to a jog and pads up through the aisles of trees in the vineyard.

The case is propped up next to the table leg— right where he’d left it. After bending over to pick it up, he lets his eyes drink in the view-- for real, this time. He turns his gaze upon the rolling hills and rows of red that look kin to an immaculately arranged wildfire. And he  _ pictures _ . 

  
  
  


That night Taeyong takes a walk out to the field and sees the stars without Doyoung. He finds the particularly flat patch of ground and settles down there, stretching out his legs and tilting his head to the sky. He’s achingly aware of the empty space beside him, but the night air is bitingly chilly and gives his mind something else to run laps around. 

But circles start and end in the same place, after all. Round and around he goes, in Doyoung’s orbit as if it’s the only thing he knows how to do. He wonders if Doyoung feels the same— if he’s been waking up in the middle of the night too because the dreams are getting too much. If being without him feels like something wedged inside his chest has been torn out too, leaving the wound to fend for itself while the world keeps spinning. There are a thousand things that Taeyong wants to say to Doyoung, a thousand question marks that fly around his chest until he feels like he’s going to crumble. Does Doyoung’s head spin too, from all the words that can’t seem to leave his mouth? Does Doyoung want to scream into the sky?

Taeyong knows he does. 

It’s so quiet out here. Not a soul to be heard or seen for miles. He looks up at the expanse of intricate celestial tapestry and lets the stars do all the talking. 

Lets the tears in his eyes well up until everything around him is a blur and the sky above is nothing (everything) more than swirls and smudges of blues and yellows and everything in between.

  
  


There’s a faint rustling in the field behind Taeyong, and he takes no notice of it until an ashy grey hare pokes its curious head out of the long grass next to him. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve. Smiles. Maybe he’s not so alone after all. 

“Long night, huh?” he murmurs, shuffling over so the little creature has more space to sit. It stays still. “That’s okay.”

  
  


He continues talking, even when the hare turns around and runs back off into the night. 

  
  


“I hope you’re not.”  _ Feeling the way I am. _

“Hold on for me, okay?”  _ I’m holding on for you.  _

“Wait for me, okay?”  _ I’m waiting for you _ . 

And then, “For me you could, right?” 

  
  


Because for Doyoung, Taeyong could. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**_‘The sadness will last forever.’_ **

  
  
  


Nothing lasts forever— this much Taeyong knows. 

  
  


He has the broken pencils and scribbles in sketchbooks and the hole in the window to remind him of this. It also reminds him that the darkness exists, though, and the thought weighs him down like bricks to a shoulder. 

Shards of yellow ceramic lie tucked in an otherwise empty drawer. Taeyong doesn’t even remember breaking the vase. 

When he wakes up one morning to find it missing from its usual spot on the mantle, he’s distraught. No words can begin to scratch the surface of how terrible he feels. And it comes in waves, too, like some kind of migraine— the realisation of what he’s done striking him over and over again. The fear of selling himself away, it doesn’t outweigh the fear of hurting someone he loves. Curse this impulsiveness. Curse this stupidity. 

He’s curled up on the floor again with his head in his hands.  _ Sorry _ , is all his mind can come to.  _ Sorry, Doyoung.  _

  
  
  


Everything is beautiful and everything hurts. 

  
  


This won’t last long, he tells himself. Just until the rest of this winter. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**_‘Close friends are truly life's treasures. Sometimes they know us better than we know ourselves. With gentle honesty, they are there to guide and support us, to share our laughter and our tears. Their presence reminds us that we are never really alone.’_ **

  
  
  


When the bitter frost that peppers every surface eventually decides to melt away and the sight of spring finally makes its charming appearance, Taeyong takes a certain wooden box out from under his bed and lays its contents out on the floorboards in front of him. 

Every letter Doyoung sent him— they’re all here now. 

The first thing that hits him is  _ goodness _ , there’s a lot of them. On a day less fine than this one, this would make Taeyong sad. He’d be reminded of how long Doyoung has been away, or something. Be sad about all the days the two of them have been apart. Today is decidedly not the time for such feelings, though, so he feels happy. Appreciated. Happy to be appreciated. 

The second isn’t a thought but rather an influx of pure and unbridled  _ feeling _ . All the emotions one can possibly, humanly experience. If Taeyong had a bit more emotional intelligence he’d probably be able to make sense of them, of the way he’s feeling everything at once right now. But he’s naive and he’s confused and he’s overwhelmed by… what is it that he’s feeling at the moment? The most curious feeling of all— one that could start wars and split seas and deliver a hundred words of confession or something else just as treacherous— Taeyong feels love. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**_‘Normality is a paved road: It’s comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it_ ** **_… I want to touch people with my art. I want them to say 'he feels deeply, he feels tenderly'.’_ **

  
  
  


He sees sunflowers again, this time fresh and growing tall in a field. It’s that time of year when Taeyong has just enough money to sustain himself— daily bread and sometimes coffee and not much wiggle room for anything else (i.e. frivolous things like sunflowers). He thinks it’s ludicrous that even such simple joys have a price written all over them, but as a poor man with little intention to voice his thoughts to the rest of the town—  _ or interact with the rest of the town at all, for that matter _ , he keeps his complaints for another day. 

Today is the classic kind of beautiful— the type of sunshine that makes everything seem idyllic, pouring generously over all creatures great and small, a gentle summer breeze that combs through the dancing grass and the locks of Taeyong’s hair, and not a judgemental villager to be seen for miles. 

Taeyong makes a note to paint this scene when he gets home— the house and the sunflowers and all this gold. If only Doyoung were here to see it, too.

  
  


It doesn’t make him sad today. Just fond. How lovely it is, that everything good reminds Taeyong of him, and everything that reminds him of Doyoung makes him want to create something beautiful. It’s nice to have a muse. 

  
  


As he makes his way closer to civilisation again he swears he can hear the sound of strings. Cello strings. Taeyong doesn’t know how many days there are until the rich melodies will be for him again— if they ever will be, but he tells himself it’ll be soon. 

  
  


He sits outside with his easel that evening, mug of coffee on the stone floor next to him. The birds’ songs keep him company as the last licks of sunlight keep him painting thick, sweeping brush strokes across the canvas. Sunflowers bring Taeyong hope, and for now that’s all he needs. 

  
  
  


He sells some more art, later that month. A stranger named Taeyeon visits his studio (his house) one afternoon and tells him his paintings are beautiful. Taeyong sells her two pieces she likes especially. Chooses to believe her. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**_‘I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.’_ **

  
  
  


Taeyong dreams of wonderful things tonight. People, places, the world as it is. Dappled light that filters through tall green trees and the familiar touch of a hand. He dreams of midnight air. Home and his two eyes and bright smile. Horsehair on gut strings and that sparkle in his eyes. 

  
  


He almost doesn’t want to wake up but for this, he knows he’ll have to. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**_‘If you truly love Nature, you will find beauty everywhere.’_ **

  
  
  


There’s a little garden that surrounds Taeyong’s cottage. It’s mostly stray grass and weeds and pebbles that Taeyong’s collected, but there’s assorted wildflowers that grow in all shapes and colours and an ornamental pear tree with blooms in the spring and birds in the summer. There’s no topiary hedges or well-kept lawns but there’s a chair Taeyong likes to sit on and eat his breakfast in the mornings, as well as dinner when the sun’s setting. 

Sometimes Taeyong will crouch down on the ground and watch the trail of ants march orderly across the yard, off on some journey that less important people like himself would know nothing about. He’ll stay like that for ages while the world moves on and people go about their lives, just concentrating on the way the minuscule creatures scurry along in single file. 

Other times when it’s warm, he’ll lay a sheet down across the courtyard and lie on it in the middle of the day, watching the clouds float past, if there are any of them at all. 

  
  


It’s quiet here.

  
  


Taeyong thinks that out of all the wild and wonderful sceneries that the foreign universe has to offer, there’s a certain kind of special in the mundane, a kind of beauty in the things he gets to see everyday. This little slice of the world— it’s lovely and it's his.

  
  
  


Today he sits and paints, with the summer breeze casting long sighs of searing heat across his skin. On the canvas is a scene depicting a field, the sky and a lark. It’s nothing in particular, but even nothing has something to say. Taeyong focuses carefully on the way the light hits every strand of grass, the way the wind has the wheat tilted in the grandest of slow dances. The lark must be on a journey, Taeyong thinks. He’s optimistic enough to assume that it’ll get to its destination safely and attentive enough to notice where it’s headed. 

The sound of hooves in a quick trot diverts Taeyong’s attention away from the painting. They slow to a halt in front of his house, and the man riding them descends the horse, and gives Taeyong a nod of acknowledgement before placing a brown paper envelope in the mailbox. 

Taeyong places the palette and brush down on the ground and wastes no time in rushing to tear open the letter and read Doyoung’s message at once. 

_ “Dear Taeyong,”  _ it reads, and Taeyong sinks slowly onto a spot on the grass. _ “I hope you are well.” _

_ “We have just finished playing our fourth show this week and will be making our way home very soon. By the time you read this, we will have started travelling already. Get ready to welcome me soon, dear. I am looking forward to seeing you again.” _

  
  


He can’t stop smiling. Doyoung’s coming home. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**_‘Love many things, for therein lies the true strength, and whosoever loves much performs much, and can accomplish much, and what is done in love is done well.’_ **

  
  
  


They’re a tangle of limbs and sheets and shirt buttons on the warm floorboards. Taeyong has his face tucked comfortably in the curve of Doyoung’s neck and the cello lies some several feet away from them, bow placed neatly next to its big wooden body. 

It hasn’t been long since Doyoung came home but entire lifetimes must have passed since they were last like this— the two of them tossed together without a care in the world. 

  
  


“Your hair’s gotten long,” Doyoung murmurs, toying with the locks of brown that fall messily in and around his lover’s eyes. 

“Do you like it?” Taeyong asks into Doyoung’s skin, eyes still shut. 

“Because it’s you, yeah,” Doyoung breathes, and Taeyong can hear the smile in his voice. 

  
  


There’s sunlight pouring in through the window, and Taeyong feels like he’s got some of it in his bones— that white-gold warmth that makes its appearance in all his paintings. The colour in Doyoung’s melodies. They’re a part of him now. 

  
  


“Hey, Doyoung?” Taeyong says, and he turns to face him, opening his eyes directly into his lover’s. 

“Yes, dear?”

He pauses, relishing the words before sending them out into the world. “Will we be like this for a long time?” They taste sweet on his tongue. 

Doyoung furrows his brow and drinks in the question slowly. Then, finally he opens his mouth to speak, and closes it again. “Like this as in…” he waves his hands a little, probably hoping Taeyong will understand. 

Taeyong blinks. And then he does.

“Oh, no. I meant just…” he makes some hand gestures of his own. “This.”

“Oh!” Doyoung says, smiling. He runs his fingertips over the curve of Taeyong’s collarbone. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Taeyong repeats, hopeful. 

With a note of certainty Doyoung replies, “Yeah.”

  
  


“That’s good,” Taeyong says softly, before tucking his head back into Doyoung’s shoulder. “I’m glad.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**_‘And without my expatiating on this theme it is obvious that putting little white dots on the blue-black is not enough to paint a starry sky.’_ **

  
  


They’ve a bottle of wine between them and a bedsheet to lie on. It’s Taeyong, Doyoung and his cello again, and an audience of every star in the sky. 

Doyoung asks Taeyong if he remembers that one night all those moons ago— the one before he’d left for Paris, and Taeyong says no, how could he have forgotten?

He smiles at his reply then turns his gaze towards the heavens. Tells Taeyong he’ll pick out every single one of them if he only asks him to. Taeyong takes another sip from his glass and says he’d rather not— how would he be able to paint them?

Doyoung says he knows he would be able to find a way. 

  
  


And Taeyong thinks maybe he would. A star in the kitchen sink. Another in the courtyard. Perhaps he could paint one sitting in that chest of drawers that hides the broken vase— how curiously interesting the lighting would be.  _ What a load of pretty nonsense _ , he thinks to himself. It makes him feel unbelievably happy. 

The both of them are a certain degree of delirious tonight, the wine and the love and the everything in between blurring the lines of art and reality and reality and the world. The starry sky still swirls drunkenly in spots and spirals and peppered gold kisses, and Taeyong feels so, so warm. 

**Author's Note:**

> will write a note here after reveals :)


End file.
